


Link: What evil lurks (plus map)

by Charles_Rockafellor



Category: Evil Dead - All Media Types, The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms
Genre: Brooding, Cognitive Dissonance, Eternal Champion - Freeform, Existential Horror, Gen, Lovecraftian Elements, Slapstick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2020-05-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 17:40:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,509
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24360739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charles_Rockafellor/pseuds/Charles_Rockafellor
Summary: What do you do when you're being driven mad in increments by reality gone mad itself?  When your every attempt at a normal life is thwarted by some insidious evil, laughing at you from behind the shadows?  When every waitress's hand is against you, and not in a good way?Approximately concurrent with the Zelda/Peach romance series “Love against the Darkness”, and the Necroscope-inspired story “To be” set far to the east.𝑫𝒐𝒏'𝒕 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒈𝒆𝒕 𝒕𝒐 𝑳𝒊𝒌𝒆, 𝑺𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝑺𝒖𝒃𝒔𝒄𝒓𝒊𝒃𝒆! ❤️
Collections: Humor and Comedy, Icewall, Light World





	1. Primordium

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: “Primordium,” as introduced herein, is a powerful entity (primordial, as you might have inferred); while we don't see much of it directly, and its hand shows only in the actions of its less-powerful minions in Link's life, some attention is given to it (among quite a few others) in a related study of scaling characters' relative power levels in writing and games, titled “[Superheroes: Powers and Principalities](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29371374)”.
> 
> As for Link's continuing adventures, there are more ideas in the works than just these chapters on AO3, but they are as yet only the barest snippets and one outline -- too minimal for me to include (with any dignity) even a draft form here. If you really wish to check them out anyway, then you can find them in “What evil lurks” at my Google drive:  
> ▐► <https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1BG7P_sVezz8Dn5b8js_34yeAjSBhfN0v>

In the beginning, there was darkness, and chaos strode the lands.

  
The darkness stirred, waking to the new things crawling within. A brittle point of light, a focus so tiny as to go unnoticed were it not for the unceasing itch, the burning irritation that it caused. Whatever issued forth from this sugar glass burr must be unmade.

Turning inward, the darkness consumed itself with an intense yearning, stoking the currents that flowed across eternity, plucking the threads that guided all things, searching for the weak spot to harry.

If it could have smiled, then this moment would have been one of supreme satisfaction...

**O ~~~ O**


	2. When in Kakariko Mura

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've ever played the “Ōkami” video game (or were to simply browse some images thereof), then you have a good idea of the surreal experience that Link has here with the door in the wall. It's too tangential a point to tag for the story, but I figured that it was worth touching on here in the header-note. Likewise, the quiet gentleman harks back to BtVS S04E10, though his effect (encompassing his mysterious Gerudo guards, who take a note from Rotti Largo's guards in “Repo! The genetic opera”) is similar to that of Dr. Who's Silence.

_**Light world ([open image](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f4/00/63/f400631161599f7d7d782c1041c8f575.jpg) in new tab to zoom)** _

_The average Joe worries about death and taxes, or just maybe the dead shambling after them for some brains tartare and a side of horseradish._

_Comfortable, well-fed literary critics philosophize that true horror lies in vast evil, a cold and alien intellect scrutinizing all without sympathy, possessed of cosmic indifference._

_They don't know shit._

_You want true horror? Face a life targeted for no reason at all – and you're not even targeted to be killed; the bad guys happen to enjoy tormenting you, but that's not their goal, nor are you aught but a random choice. They have neither goal nor true target. They're utterly indifferent to any results at all – not only do they not care which results obtain, but that any occur at all is irrelevant to them. The very concepts of time and consequences are almost beyond their comprehension when existence is a series of disjoint moments. Theirs is only the eternal and ever-mutable now._

His eyes always seemed slightly “off,” as if focused on two slightly different points of parallax. In truth, it was the world around him that seemed slightly akilter, always moving just a little, as if it were tipsy, but rotating around different axes simultaneously – and neither one of them on speaking terms with those familiar to ordinary life – much like having had _just barely enough_ to feel the edge-effects... and then one more beer to be sure. Sometimes you could hear carnival music borne faintly upon the wind if you were to listen just right. The key was to listen at ten degrees past two AM, when the blue was in the dew-soaked air.

Other times, you could get there simply by not paying attention to that one fateful step, and ending up in a patch of ground that wasn't quite so brightly lit, seeing the world that you'd occupied until a moment ago as if through a glass darkly, the edges worn smooth, a parallelogram of heads and tails where tails and heads should have been, the air feeling liquid-thick and coolly warm.

Why him? Why not. See how the world does the son of a goatherd.

 _Let's watch Link dance, try to fend off invisible adversaries, save those who haven't a clue of their need!_ And always the final insult, the slap in the face: the transformation into some pitiful rupee or potsherd or other mundane object when others would see the truth of it – unless they were doomed, and then they'd wish that they'd never seen it, though only briefly before the agony of their deaths. An entire village wiped out, awash in blood – not a single body, just blood – the only note saving his neck being that they'd found him locked into the root cellar, barred and chained from without.

_Well, no noose is good noose..._

_An imp in your hair? No, surely you jest, sir; 'tis only a mite or a strand of straw on the wind. What's that you say? Unclean beasts will ravage the stables? We see naught but a few mangy dogs. Now off with you and your wild stories, before you taste my the lash!_

He watched as a skulltula crept down from the gables, an unwary barmaid intent upon her rounds. _Been seeing a lot more of those of late – skulltulas and barmaids alike..._

One eye on the creature and one on the door, he shrugged casually, bringing his wrist to the edge of the table.

_*Snick-thwip!*_

A needle shot forth, silent and unnoticed, piercing the foul thing, the barbs of the bolt's tail grasping it firmly as the two flew to the wall and lodged there with a slight quiver.

_You'll thank me for that later, babe._

He sighed. _Still two hours to go before the Moblins were likely to make their move, and here the crimson light already cast a dark pall across the threshold. Probably more damned Stalkoblins; pesky things were everywhere. Oh, wait, nah... they're really just a pile of sticks, right? 'cause those always walk around and change places; sure, that's a thing, isn't it?_

He was running low on cash again. Time to start a new grift. No rush as yet, but still he kept an eye out for likely marks.

_Maybe that abandoned house next to the ruined abbey tonight? It looked okay there. I'm sure they won't bother me if I mind my own business, what with bygones and all..._

His wrist rumbled slightly. Glancing at his watch, the face had taken a deep charcoal-gray hue, the second hand pointing directly at the front door.

The door opened and a customer strolled in. Nondescript, average, unassuming. Suede duster.

Just one problem: most people don't wear two images, walking out of sync with themselves.

Link continued to stare off into space with a bored expression, taking a few chugs of his beer.

The figure turned to nod to him in passing, one face a withered husk, the other a gaily painted mask. He lifted his chin in acknowledgment.

Its footsteps rang out part deep with a jingle and part hollow as of a poorly tuned woodwind thumped across the end with one's palm. Too many elbows and knees, and never quite the same number of limbs.

Nobody else made any stir.

What did they see? Just some fellow traveler.

What did they hear? Nothing more remarkable than the timbre of the floor.

The air was unsettled, carrying decay and dust, his passage having stirred an unseen mist that was nigh on palpable.

* _Hush_ *, came a silent voice, the thought of a sound, one that was felt and almost seen rather than heard.

Time didn't stop, but the patrons and servants now went about their business in an empty fashion, as if having become only window dressing on a stage for the main players' performance, mechanically repeating meaningless actions, their conversations dulled to a murmur of vapid blurbs and soundbites. The soft accordiano **1** music fell away, muffled as if by a velveteen blanket, though not muted.

Link did nothing but sip his beer and grin insipidly as two more customers in severe suits entered. Tall, with sharp, aquiline features, prominent breasts, reddish-orange hair; they looked like Gerudo, though he couldn't be sure beneath the dark sunglasses and satin fedoras. The black and white suits were certainly well cut for their figures.

_The hell they have on their faces – they planning on welding something? This is getting interesting._

As they moved through the common room he could see distortions as if the air were caught in a single moment, the tiny fluctuations of temperature magnified enough to present visible areas of pulsing heat-shimmer frozen in place and facets of crystalline smoothness at odd angles to one another. Through all of this the newcomers meandered unfazed, sometimes disappearing briefly, other times moving through two or more places at once, bits of their images dripping off at random.

Reaching for a thin strip of empty wall space adjacent the bar, the first figure opened a door that hadn't been there a moment ago, the entire room stretching in perspective to accommodate this new feature, everything else within view becoming ever so slightly narrower.

Stepping through, the strangers closed it behind themselves, an air of normality descending once more.

Weird. There was a slippery, sliding sensation, like that time up in Hebra with the Titanotheres on the frozen ocean. Even the wave crests and the spume had just sat there, floating in the air; the icy misty quality that the air had taken on... He really hated Hebra.

“I said, d'you want a refill?”

He blinked, feeling as if he were missing something. His head throbbed a little, as well.

_Nothing new there. If I had a minute for every time I've lost time... well, I'd have a lot of minutes in no time._

The barmaid was looking at him expectantly, snapping her gum.

Glancing toward the corner where the door wasn't, he nodded to her, “Just one more for now should sober me up enough I think, but leave the pitcher just in case, dollface.”

She left to finish her round, shaking her head and muttering to herself, a small teal bat-winged thing hanging from her back and knotting her hair meticulously into tangles. As she moved into better light it shifted back and forth between celadon and sea foam, with flashes of celery and mint. He ignored it and returned to staring out the window, thinking back to the village again.

_Why was it always demonic chickens? It wasn't always, of course. Sometimes it was shambling mounds of unidentifiable vegetable matter or those masses of flesh covered in gibbering mouths, or giant worm-things with a thousand noodly appendages, or even flying skulls out to suck your blood and soul just for some variety, but it seems to always come back to poultrygeists._

_It had all started with the dreams. Except that it hadn't really, had it? It went further back than that._

_The Garden Trolls?_

_No. The Zora and the Each-uisge._

They'd been playing by the lake while he tended his father's goats. A mist had come up, and he'd turned to see the horse come out of the water on two legs, with a parrot-like beak and weeds dangling from its mane. It had set upon her before he'd had a chance to blink. He'd run, pummeled it, finally tearing into it with his dagger. But he'd already been too late. The girl was no more, torn apart as if savaged by wolves, and of the Each-uisge there was only a pile of goo like a jellyfish, surrounded by what looked like starch.

Alone, that might have passed without stir.

Another incident six months later, this time with a Pwca.

And again a year after that, with the small band of Nasnas.

Talk made its rounds, and he was always at the center of it.

Then nothing for years but hints out of the corners of his eyes.

And so it came to pass that his life became a madman's dream. For all that he left it, it returned with a vengeance every time. Toying with him. The whole thing was a game.

They tormented him. He sought deserted lands. They followed for a while, then went away. He'd hunt them down again in a backwoods town or on the highroads. They'd give chase once more. The cycle repeated anew, endlessly. They'd disappear for months, and just when he got used to the quiet, they'd pop up again.

He could smell them – it gave him the wiggins. They were here, biding their time. Watching from behind a mirror, whispering and chittering in the shadows behind the light. Waiting for an innocuous moment to drive him around the bend, unless he could kill them before they struck.

His thoughts wandered some more.

_Zelda. She seems happy... enough. Not that this curse matters, since I don't exactly have the right plumbing for her. Haven't seen her in a few. Hope she's doing alright. Hey, who am I kidding? With that flea circus she hangs with, I feel sorry for anyone who gets in their way. Plus, they have Epona right now, and I specifically instructed Epona to make sure that they didn't get themselves into too much trouble – she's a Wonder Horse; they'll be fine. Probably. Mostly. Probably mostly fine. Sure._

Memories played out for him. He had time. Couldn't hurt.

_Pérdida and her sneers, the scathing snipes that Zelda never knew of; eventually all hell breaking loose._

He toasted her, hoping that she was rotting in whatever special hell had been built to hold her.

_Probably promoted her to Succubus or Banshee or something._

The piece ended and the accordiano player relaxed, taking a moment to slake his thirst with a glass of wine and thanking a patron who'd just dropped some change into his tips jar.

“Play it again, Sam.”

It took the white-haired musician a moment to realize that Link was addressing him. After a slightly confused look, lifting his glasses and bowler hat to peer over at Link, he declared “It is I, LeClerc!”

Getting no sign of recognition from Link, he simply shrugged and settled into the piece once more.

 _Fairy Tales of Pipin._ It always reminded him of Zelda. The ghost of a smile graced his face as hers crossed his mind. He could see her now, walking lightly across a flower-filled meadow, or dancing in the castle... _well, time wounds all heels, or something like that._

 _She_ loves _me, but she isn't_ in love with _me. What the hell does that even mean?_

She used to be so happy and carefree. Then ecstatic. Then depressed, questioning herself and every thought that she had. Then miserable and hopeless.

Now she simply existed.

Shit, her life _was_ arguably worse than his own.

_It's been four hours now, and the place is getting ready to close. No sight of Moblins, just smoke in my eyes and a fish eye from the barmaid. Great. Another bust. Well, sun'll be up soon, so I guess it's time to hit the hay or whatever leaves have blown into that shotgun shack._

Squaring the tab with the bartender, Link's eyes wandered over to the corner again.

The door that wasn't there earlier. It wasn't there again, and this time it was ajar.

_When is a door not a door?_

Ambling sideways toward a spot on the wall to the side of the door, the bartender seemed to have forgotten that he was even there.

 _Nice trick. Gotta remember that next time,_ before _I pay up._

The door remained ajar, and his view remained unchanged, as if it had been painted there. Painted poorly in broad strokes, now that he had a good view of it. And not flush with the surface, but painted about three inches inset, though it felt as if it were hovering closer to him than the wall itself was.

Crossing to the hinge-side of the door changed nothing.

As he stepped away though, the entire room spun slowly, as if it had been the one to do all the drinking this evening.

_The accordiano has been drinking, not me..._

Nothing had changed.

Maybe nothing.

No, _not_ nothing.

The customers looked funny. Different. It was hard to tell though, with the mood-lights casting a harsh glare about them, sapping their images of color and contrast in the darkness of the room in general.

Turning back to the door, he could see it still there, painted poorly a few inches in front of the wall, though feeling farther away than the surface itself.

_Now wait a minute... why I oughta..._

It was still fairly dim out, just a few thin, watery rays of sunlight sneaking through the mist outside of the window. Except that there hadn't been a mist before.

 _...this_ isn't _The Kit-Kat Club._

The bartender gave him an impatient look. It was the masked... _man_... from earlier in the evening.

Sliding a pitcher toward Link, the man dropped four rupees on the bar and waited.

_Alright, Dorothy, time for a tea party._

He accepted the pitcher, then picked up the rupees hastily when he caught the look that the bartender cast him as he made to return to his table without having accepted payment for the beer. Fumbling in the process of picking up the rupees in haste, he let the pitcher fall to the floor to shatter like so much pottery.

The bartender scowled deeply, filled another pitcher, and dropped an additional twenty four rupees next to it with a meaningful glare.

He was more careful this time, collecting his pay into his purse _before_ taking hold of the pitcher gently and giving the bartender an apologetic smile, then turning slowly to find his seat.

The accordiano began playing a lament, almost a wordless elegy. Looking more closely, he could see strings draped from the lid, moving in time with the player's hands. It wasn't LeClerc, just a marionette.

_Heh, a player piano piano-player played by the piano. Wait, what?_

He hadn't noticed the barmaid sidle over, but now that she was there, his attention drifted back from the music. Placing a twenty rupee piece on the table, she cocked her head at him.

“Well, sure, I could get used to this...” he told her warmly.

She smiled and slid into his lap.

Pleasant enough, though fairly nondescript. She looked familiar, but he couldn't quite place how...

“What, no hands?” she breathed after a minute or two of slow, enticing motions.

“From past experience, I think I like them the way they are – attached to my arms, thanks,” he replied, and smiled reassuringly toward the Gerudo bouncer watching them.

The more that he thought about it, the more that he realized that she resembled Zelda a bit. A mixed blessing, but he wasn't protesting.

A few more quiet minutes passed, and she put another ten rupees on the table for him.

_A man could get used to this... and damn, but I swear she could be Zelda's cousin._

She turned to face away from him now and leaned back, draping her hair gently across his face as her cheeks slid across his crotch.

_A few more minutes of this, and we won't need a room._

She was the spitting image of Zelda, really – in fact, she looked more like Zelda than Zelda did. Smelled and moved more like her than Zelda did.

“For fifty rupees, I'll _swallow_ your _soul_...” she whispered.

That snapped him back to reality, or what passed for it here.

“Thanks sister, but I don't think I have it in me.”

Lifting her gently from his lap, he set her down with a slap to her ass to send her on her way.

Pouting, she left him a five rupee tip.

 _What gives with this place, anyway?_ he wondered as he headed for the front door.

Stepping out, he found himself within the bar, walking away from the corner and toward his table. The one where he was still sitting as _Fairy Tales of Pipin_ played, his mug empty.

The barmaid was just beginning her rounds as he caught her arm.

“Could you get my friend at the table a pitcher?” he asked, dropping a ten rupee piece into her shirt.

Motioning to LeClerc, he made his way out into the night, the moon high in the sky and no sign of dawn, as she approached the table.

The last thing that he heard before leaving was her asking if he wanted another round.

**O ~~~ O**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1** Accordiano: a piano-style of musical instrument that operates within upon the acoustic mechanics of an accordion, the whole being powered by a heavy reaction wheel and played through a combination of keyboard and treadles. The structural mechanics are designed for the notes have a slow attack and rapid release, enabled by individual offset cams' rotations to automate the action, while the keys' pressure dictates the rotation rate (and thus attack-slope, rather than sustain-volume) by controlling the brake-strength.
> 
> This combines with a shunt at the throat of the bellows to form a warbling kargyraa undertone drone, while dampened felted-rubber is stroked across lead-crystal cavities to produce a trilled armonica overtone accompaniment.


	3. The wee bairn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story's an homage to a story in a Conan comic that I read around '78 or '80. I don't remember the original's details at all, but the twist fit so well with some of the ambiance here that I included this version.

He was cold, and he was miserable, and the drizzle hadn't let up for hours. He hated Innsmouth.

Sure, taking this job was easy money. Just ride shotgun for the family, see that they get to their newborn's god-parents. No problem. What could go wrong?

Besides, the people there always skulked around as if they were up to something. Every single one of them. All of the time. Creepy bastards. As a bonus, it got him away from them – and none too soon after the scam he'd been pulling. They'd likely figure the swindle pretty soon.

Brilliant light slashed the sky asunder as thunder sounded upon its heels.

He really hated Innsmouth.

He could be in some nice little inn, feet kicked up, girls feeding him grapes...

 _Can't scratch an itch when you don't have the scratch_ , he sighed.

_Speaking of which, why is it that whenever anyone else wanders into the woods, they find pretty flowers and delicious wild food just ripe for the taking, and maybe a few lonely Dryads? Me, every time I turn around, I can't throw a dead cat without hitting a hidden temple or a lost city guarded by crazy monsters and ancient laser-traps!_

Staring out into the not-so-darkness, his eyes lit upon LeClerc trundling along on his bicycle. He just couldn't fathom what the man saw in the thing. Why not put it into the Conestoga and stay dry? Why all of the work just to keep up?

The scenery wasn't much to write home about, but at R30 per day, plus travel expenses, he couldn't complain. They'd said it would be a week, maybe ten days. Two or three hundred rupees by the end of that? He'd have a decent purse and be far from Innsmouth to boot. Now if he could just get rid of that fishy smell that'd plagued them since leaving...

Their pet whip-poor-wills started another annoying chorus. This started the nightingale going in its raucous lament, and together they startled the sheep that his current employers had insisted ride within the wagon. A flight of whip-poor-wills chose that moment to pass overhead, the nightingale's cries echoing over even the pink noise of the rainfall.

His eyes came to settle upon a flower by the verge, its petals an unwholesome blood red in the dwindling gray light.

Leaning over toward the husband, he asked “So, cute kid. What's his name, again?”

The couple exchanged a dour glance.

Tight-lipped, the man replied “Yossarian,” and left it at that.

Link chewed this over.

“That's right. Yossarian. Yossarian? Is that his name? _Yossarian?_ What the hell kind of a name is Yossarian?”

The man spared him a glance with an inscrutable expression lurking beneath it.

“It's a fine name. Been in te fam'ly fore years noow. Yossarian Obediah Kafka,” locking his gaze with Link's.

“Alright, don't get your panties in a twist. Yossarian it is,” he replied, adjusting his surcoat, “Just a bit of a mouthful is all I'm saying. That and his initials won't make him popular in school: Y.O.K. – _yuck_.”

The wife cocked her head as if listening to something that only she could hear, and settled back into the ride.

The days dragged on slowly, neither they nor he showing any great interest in conversation with one another. LeClerc, for his part, was greatly welcomed by them. His humor and music were always a boon, with a good eye for wild food growing by the roadside.

Only once was Link's expertise required, and that only to drive off a trio of Wolfos. Their occasional unnerving howls paralleling their journey for several miles thereafter, sometimes changing to lions' roars and back again, until leaving the pack's territory.

A week came and went. As they encamped for the eighth evening, the husband announced gruffly that they should reach their destination within a few more hours.

“Hey, is your kid O.K.? I'd swear there's something funny in his swaddling there.”

Without a word, the man dismissed him, turning to his family's needs.

“Well, excu-use me for giving a damn!”

Link slept well that night, relishing soon being rid of these people. They had as much life in them as a pithed frog.

Morning came slowly, a thick mist having set in well before false dawn.

They moved along slowly, made cautious by the ten-foot visibility.

The only sounds were the creaking of the leaf shocks and the sodden clops and squelches from the horses' hooves. And the ever-present squeaky-axle of LeClerc's bicycle, sometimes accompanied by the dull sound of a branch broken beneath them, clawing its way through the moisture. The world had been reduced to a light gray, fading to an indiscernible nothing at no sure distance, sound seeming to be sucked away before it was made. Only the intermittent drips from the awning showed any certain sign of activity, the road being as good as a treadmill in these conditions.

An hour or two passed like this before there was any indication of change. He couldn't see the change as such, instead having suddenly realized that he could now see better than he had been able to an hour earlier.

“Hey, lighten up, guys! The end is near!”

For some reason, they seemed to find this almost humorous. Maybe he was finally rubbing off on them.

As lunch approached, the small stream that they'd been traveling along joined a much larger one, almost a small river. Between the slight decline and some small boulders, it varied from class one to class two, with moments of class three. He wouldn't mind a dip right now, but... needs must as the devil drives.

When they pulled over, Link was more than ready for lunch. The freshening of the air had him famished.

Instead, the couple looked about as if seeking something.

Idiots. There was nothing here but a large open pond with a small waterfall at the far side, some trees along the road behind them, and the road leading on through a few cliffs ahead of them.

A few minutes passed like this before he attempted to get their attention. After yet another spectacular fail, he sat by the pond and waited.

Not long after, he saw some ripples in the surface of the water. As he looked around for a decent pole to fish with, the ripples became a larger disturbance, and he considered casting a net instead.

The disturbance boiled, and Link stepped back in alarm.

“Whoa, hey, folks, you might want to get behind me now – or better still, LeClerc.” At this, the old man jerked his face toward Link in concern.

Rising from the depths, a shaggy formless head appeared. He thought of it as a head, since it was atop the shape's shoulder area, but that wasn't really a head, and those weren't really shoulders.

Saggitaria and muck dripped a full five paces as another form rose from the water.

For a moment, none broke this tableau.

In a flash, a hitherto unseen tentacle lashed forward and ensnared the babe, bringing it forth from his mother's arms and aloft to the creatures' scrutiny.

“Hey! Keep your filthy pseudopodia off, you damned, dirty Shoggoths!”

Ignoring him, the second figure reached for the baby, a tentacle gently peeling away the blanket.

Link stood frozen, for revealed beneath was a mass of short, writhing tentacles.

As he stood gaping, the couple held hands in communion with these creatures, their hands showing webbing to the discerning eye, though none such were about just then, and their skin just a tinge grayer than would be seen under normal lighting, the faint outline of gills barely feathering in their necks.

Link left that day three hundred rupees the richer, and dumbfounded for all of that.

**O ~~~ O**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE: There are more ideas in the works, but they are as yet only the barest snippets and one outline -- too minimal for me to include (with any dignity) even a draft form here. If you really wish to check them out anyway, then you can find them in “What evil lurks” at my Google drive:  
> ▐► <https://drive.google.com/drive/folders/1BG7P_sVezz8Dn5b8js_34yeAjSBhfN0v>


End file.
